


Acceptable Risk

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Steve, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bonding, Cuddling & Snuggling, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Omega Bucky Barnes, Past Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra's obsession with the super soldier serum leads them to use Bucky to continue the line.  After the hellicarriers, he remembers that they have taken his baby from him.  He wants her back.  </p><p>(I am utter trash, please accept these banana peels as a token of my love)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In Steve's time, anyone could tell you that the grief from a broken bond could kill you, sure as anything. It was also common knowledge that if the grief didn’t kill you outright, then it’d easily drive you half-mad. There were numerous dramas of heartbroken omegas who, after receiving word that their lover had died in the Great War, dwindled to nothing until their hearts failed them. There were just as many starring alphas staring blankly into the distance after the loss of their bonded, consumed by despair. 

Science had, apparently, proven that grief could cause one’s heart to fail- but only in those with the propensity towards it, exacerbated by stress, usually in the elderly. Literal heartbreak was, by and large, a melodrama of the past; a metaphor of the effects of grief. There were stages following any loss, they told him, ending in acceptance after a time. To dwell was considered unhealthy. They had a dirty word for lying at the grave of one’s mate: codependent. 

He took up the shield again a few months after he’d failed to protect Bucky and followed him in death. He fought, smiled when it was expected, wore the uniform when Captain America was needed. He’d considered himself dead; to him, it was only natural. 

Until Bucky had returned, and he breathed in his faint scent like his first true breath after Erskine’s transformation, and his heart picked up, and he was painfully, entirely alive. 

*

He’d been tracking Bucky for several months, always two steps behind and picking through the remains of Hydra bases, when he finally returned to Brooklyn. The Winter Soldier had come back to the States, intelligence said; Steve thought if he was patient, Bucky might just come home. 

He hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. 

He’d been watching the sky flash while the rain pelted his window, soothed by the tapping of fat drops on the metal of the fire escape, lonely but not empty. The rushing energy of the storm made him feel alive, the second period of rebirth in his short life. 

Then, too fast for him to do more than startle, the dark outline of a body landed on the fire escape with a heavy _thud_ of boots. A flash of lightning helpfully lit up the man’s face, obscured by a curtain of wet, scraggly hair, eyes wild. 

“Bucky,” he whispered, and his hand was on the latch for the glass panel before he could think, swinging it open. A metal hand grabbed the frame, and Bucky swung himself in, latched the panel shut behind him, and stood silently dripping on the carpet. His eyes were the Soldier’s; wary, tracking his movements, poised to spring. Bucky turned his face away, inhaling into his shoulder, and raised a hand- _stop_.

Steve realized he’d been pouring off some pretty heavy pheromones, _calm down_ , _come here_. Probably a good helping of _mine_. He ducked his head, sheepish, and got himself under control. 

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky grated out, as if asking a question. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, “I’m here, Bucky. You came back.” 

Bucky stared at him, still as stone. “I cannot go in yet,” he said, firm. His hand, still raised in warning, shook. “I came,” he paused. “I thought you might help.” 

“I can,” Steve said, trying and failing to keep the emotion from his voice. “Whatever it takes. Whatever you need. You’re home, now.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I can’t stay.” 

Steve felt his heart drop into his stomach. His worst fear, that Sam had gently told him but that he refused to accept, was that Bucky Barnes had died in ’44, and the soldier was a damaged man who had no interest in Steve Rogers beyond _target_. “Please,” he begged, and hell if he was just going to nod, passive and polite, and accept that his mate was beyond saving. Every damn doctor and therapist had told him to expect as much, but he wouldn’t have gotten very far in life if he’d listened to them. “Just for a while.”

“I have to keep moving,” Bucky replied, flat and expressionless, though he ducked his head away. “I have a mission.” 

Steve stiffened, straightening his shoulder. “Why did you come here, Buck?” he asked carefully. 

Bucky’s lips parted slightly at the name, then closed into a thin line. “I’ve found her. The base is too heavily fortified. I’m not sure, that I can make it out with her safely. I may be killed, or captured, alone.” 

Steve processed that for a moment, remaining as still as he could. Bucky had done that sometimes with stray cats that turned up on the windowsill when it was too hot to keep the windows closed; stayed still with slow breaths, scraps of food extended ‘till the cat came to him, ready to leap away at the slightest movement. He always complained about the strays turning up when Steve was within earshot, but Steve knew better. “Who are you trying to get out, Buck? Who is she?”

Bucky looked at him, searching, the flicker of an anxious frown passing quickly over his features. “My daughter,” he replied, gravel in his throat. “I can’t leave her with them.” He looked at the wall behind Steve. “Please. If you will help, and look after her. I’ll come in quietly.”

“God,” Steve said, dazed. He backed up a few steps, sat down in a chair, gripped the solid wood of the seat. When he looked back up, Bucky looked panicked, and his arm was trembling as he lowered it. 

“Please,” Bucky said, emotion creeping into his voice. “I don’t remember everything, but I know,” he stopped, shook his head. “There’s no one else I can trust to not be Hydra.” The last word was spat more than said, full of loathing. It told Steve enough. 

“There are people I can trust,” Steve answered, certain. Bucky looked wary, but he was listening. 

“It is a mistake, to trust anyone,” Bucky said, leaning against the couch, backlit by the soft light of Steve’s reading lamp. 

“Well, one of them defected from the KGB,” Steve replied dryly, “and she helped me take down Insight.” 

Bucky nodded. “Natalia. The Black Widow.” He rolled his metal fingers open and closed, and Steve could hear the whirr of servos. “Acceptable risk. Her goals should be aligned.” 

“The other,” Steve continued, and held up a hand at Bucky’s thunderous frown. “Also helped me take down Insight, and he can fly.” 

“I remember, but I do not know him. We cannot trust him,” Bucky argued. 

“Well,” Steve drawled, “how many black men have you seen eager to sign up for a notorious Nazi organization?” 

Bucky pondered this for a moment. “Yes,” he responded finally. “Acceptable risk. We should mobilize soon; I have the coordinates.” 

“Whoa,” Steve said gently, “why don’t you take a shower, first? Get something to eat?” 

Bucky shook his head firmly. “We must act now. They may move her. They might, harm her.”

Steve rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. “Alright,” he conceded. “I’ll call Widow and Falcon to get over here while you’re showering, and we’ll get something to eat on the way.” 

Bucky nodded reluctantly. “No airplanes. I will be detected. Hydra will be alerted.” 

Steve shuffled. “We could ask Tony to borrow one.” 

“No,” Bucky barked. “Stark has connections to Hydra. I murdered his parents.” 

Steve nodded slowly, a bit taken aback by his forthrightness. “I know. He knows. The files were leaked. He would understand, if you explained the situation.”

“Too muck risk,” Bucky said shortly. “Contact Widow. And Falcon.” He walked toward Steve’s bathroom, then looked back over his shoulder. “Do not contact Stark. I will know.” The door clicked shut behind him, and Steve could hear the wet thud of his layers of clothing being tossed onto the tile before the shower turned on. He stared at the door, which had suddenly seemed to shrink in size, distant and unreal. Bucky was in his shower. Bucky had- 

“Call Widow,” Bucky ordered over the noise of the spray. Steve picked up the phone. 

*

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?” Natasha asked Steve, flicking her damp hair easily to the side, rolling her shoulders. “It could be a trap.” 

Bucky glared daggers at her. Sam watched him steadily at his seat across from Steve, coffee in hand, calm and grounded. Bucky had emerged from the shower before they arrived, fully encased in his armor, clothing replaced by Steve’s. He’d used Steve’s dirty laundry, but it was cleaner than his own by far. Plus, he now smelled a bit like Steve, which helped put Steve’s instincts at rest, to his embarrassment. He wasn’t an animal, but, well. Trauma did funny things to bonded pairs. 

“He could’ve already killed me,” Steve pointed out. “Easily.” 

Natasha frowned, eyes narrowing. “Maybe Hydra wants to capture you.”

Bucky growled, low and deep in his chest. “I would not let Hydra take him alive. I won’t let them touch anyone, ever again, if I can help it.” 

Natasha stared at him, dispassionate, with an air of easy dominance. But Sam considered him, and nodded. 

“I believe you,” Sam said simply. “That’s enough for me.” Natasha shook her head, drained the rest of her tea. Steve hadn’t touched his coffee yet. Bucky had downed his scalding. “What about the risks of not listening to him, if he’s telling the truth?” Sam challenged. “We’re gonna let Hydra have a supersoldier baby to take apart until they see how it ticks?” 

Bucky flinched, and Steve couldn’t help the wave of pheromones that filled the room, possessive and protective. Natasha wrinkled her nose, but nodded. 

“Alright, Rogers,” she said finally. “I’ll take care of the car. How many hours of driving are we talking?”

“Pennsylvania,” Bucky offered, metal and flesh hands pressing flat against the kitchen table. He hadn’t turned away from the wash of Steve’s pheromones this time, had responded to Natasha’s cold skepticism with his growls; but, he hadn’t responded to either Alpha with his own corresponding pheromones. In fact, Steve couldn’t scent him at all. 

“I’ll grab takeout,” Sam offered, standing. “How does everyone feel about burritos? I know a place that’s open late.” 

Bucky nodded once. “I will review strategy.” He walked to Steve’s kitchen counter, and pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of the first drawer he opened. Steve felt a funny flip in his chest; he’d organized them the same as he always had, the way his Ma had- silverware in the corner, paper and miscellaneous objects to the right. 

He gave Bucky a respectful amount of space as he discussed strategy, listened and commented. Bucky was all business, and when Steve extended a hand to point to various locations on Bucky’s sketched map, Bucky moved his own carefully away. Sam returned before long, and Bucky devoured his burrito with a single-minded intensity. 

“Bucky,” Steve started carefully, “maybe you should get some rest, first.” 

Bucky shook his head. “Unnecessary. ETA on Natalia.” It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a command, either. 

Steve sighed, tapped off a text. “Seven minutes.” 

Bucky nodded. “I will sleep in the car.” 

*

The drive was long enough for Bucky to snatch some brief rest propped up against the window, his body stiffly choreographing “stay the fuck away” to anyone with half a brain. Steve pressed against his own window while Natasha drove, and Sam looked over their plans. Streetlamps from the city highway flickered through the windows. Bucky mumbled and turned in his sleep, and his damp hair fell back, baring his neck to a flash of light. 

The line was unmistakable; surgical, precise, barbaric. It followed the path of his scent gland, thin and silvery, unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it. There was a thick bunching of scar tissue at the base of Bucky’s ear, and Steve make a noise like he’d been punched. Bucky’s eyes flickered open, suddenly and completely awake, half-lidded. He followed Steve’s gaze for a moment, then shut his eyes and turned away. 

Sam’s dark, warm eyes looked back in concern, and Steve nodded towards Bucky, throat swelling. Sam studied Bucky for a moment, then his eyes went wide with empathy. Steve looked away, resolve hardening. He was going to kill each and every person who’d laid hands on Bucky, who’d tortured and tormented him and used his body for their goals. There was only one reason someone would cut out an omega’s scent glands; it was a brutal method of control, an attempt to force them to submit to Alpha’s commands. And Hydra had certainly thought omegas were the weaker sex, meant to be controlled. Their experimentation on omegas was notorious. Bucky wasn’t the first, and he certainly wasn’t the last. They’d left a trail of bodies. Bucky had hated them to the core. 

*

Growing up, Bucky was everything he should be. A strong, healthy omega, polite and good-looking. He attracted suitors of every sex and gender, whether he was scrubbed clean with his hair slicked back or covered in grease and winking at the girls who stared and giggled. 

Steve could barely even throw a scent. He hadn’t even made it through a full rut before the serum. Most people assumed he was omega; those who realized he was an alpha taunted him, shoved him around to drive home a point- that he failed to toe the line. That he was lesser. It might’ve been easier to try to pass as an omega, but Steve wasn’t one. It wasn’t some dumb offense at being thought of as an omega or anything; it was just that he wasn’t, and he wasn’t about to lie about it. 

Bucky always shook his head when Steve came home covered in bruises, reminded him that he didn’t have anything to prove while he got out the salt. Frequently, Bucky would arrive in the middle of a fight, shake his head, knock a few knothead skulls together while he pulled Steve out. They’d jeer that Steve needed an omega to save him, and Bucky would stare them down until they shut up, then wrap an arm around Steve and leave. 

“They shouldn’t say that shit,” Steve spat out, and Bucky kneeled while Steve’s feet swung on the stool. He pulled down Steve’s lower lip and frowned, pressed on one of his bleeding teeth, which blessedly held firm. “’S _wong_ ,” Steve argued passionately. 

“’Course it is,” Bucky responded, letting go of Steve’s lip to rub salt into the wound with his fingertip. Steve hissed. “They’re a bunch of fools, lookin’ to rile you up,” Bucky continued. “And you gave ‘em what they wanted.” 

Steve shook his head. “It ain’t right.” 

Bucky smiled. “Lots of things ain’t right, I know. I got you to remind me, waving your paper in my face every damn day, full of injustices.” Steve growled, pitch deeper than his small frame implied. “Look,” Bucky sighed, “I only got so much energy for fools. I already know they’re wrong. I don’t have to make ‘em say it.” 

The beta ladies had tutted at them when they moved in together, _highly irregular_ for them to share a space, but Bucky just smiled and waved. They made noises about what a _shame_ it was, what a _waste_ to have such a healthy young omega clearly smitten with angel-touched Steve Rogers. It wasn’t that they weren’t charmed by Steve (they didn’t know the half of it, Bucky would mutter and shake his head when they smiled at Steve, soft and pitying), but it was clear that he wasn’t a proper mate for anyone, and that he wasn’t long for this world anyhow, bless his heart. 

One of them actually said that to Bucky’s face once, complete with a whiff of beta “listen to me, I’m just being reasonable,” and Bucky had shaken off their influence with a pissed-off scent and quiet snarl that made them jump back. “Steve’s tougher’n nails. He’s gonna outlast us all, just you wait.” They’d wrinkled their noses delicately, and waved him away. “Of course, honey,” they’d said gently, and that made him about ready to spit nails. 

When Steve had ducked his head later and said they were probably right, and it wasn’t fair that he’d chained Bucky to him, Bucky’s scent alone made Steve apologize and discreetly open a window. 

*

It wasn’t that an omega without the influence of their scent couldn’t resist an alpha’s commands; it just made it really damn hard. Scents pushed emotion, bypassed logic and leaped right into the backbrain. Some pretty rash decisions had been made based on scent; it could drive armies to fight until their last breath, or make a mama lift a car to save their kid. The mythos around an omega protecting their child was still fearsome, though it’d been parsed down to hormones and feral behavior. 

Steve looked over at Bucky sleeping restlessly against the window in the dark, and thought it didn’t matter what the hell it was that caused it; Hydra would regret using the Winter Soldier as their broodmare, and the years of torture and brainwashing they’d used to control him. Bucky sure as hell wouldn’t be leashed. 

They approached the compound from the forest, their car ditched about a mile back. 

“It’s possible they already know we’re here,” Bucky said, pulling a pair of guns from beneath his tac gear, and frowning at one of the chambers. Sam had out a pair of binoculars, and was studying the back entrance. 

“Shit,” Sam whispered, “shit. Make that definitely. One of them just hit an alarm.” 

Bucky nodded. “Plan B.” 

“Right,” Sam said, and took a step forward, beyond the tree line. “Cover me,” he ordered, and extended his wings. He grabbed Steve first, then Natasha, then Bucky, depositing them lightly on the roof. They all made it up unscathed, thanks to Bucky, grim and expressionless as he plucked off the advancing soldiers one by one.

“They believe the roof is too heavily fortified to breach,” Bucky commented, ripping off the casing of an electrical panel. He keyed in a code, grunted when it flashed twice. A latch in the floor popped open. “I took information, from the last base,” he said by way of explanation, and lifted the metal panel. Natasha looked down into the pit, eyes narrowed, but followed when he extended a hand. 

The upper floors were eerily quiet. Even Bucky’s solid rubber combat boots made little noise on the linoleum. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispered hesitantly, “could we be walking into a trap?” 

Bucky nodded once. “Yes.” The group paused, looking back the way they came. “The base is full of operatives,” Bucky continued. “There is no easy way in. They are not a match for our combined forces.” He paused, turned to glance behind them. “They are coming,” he said, and started running full-tilt, the others struggling to catch up. When they turned the corner, there was a wall of agents waiting for them. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He charged like a battering ram, larger than life, beating back heads with his bare hands, snapping necks with the metal. They parted like butter, and Steve followed, the shield slamming into bodies with sickening crunching noises, keeping the path clear for Sam and Natasha. He heard shooting ahead, then heard Bucky grunt and fall to the floor, then roll back up to his feet in a fluid motion, keeping the same breakneck pace. 

The agents _scattered_. Bucky paused, panting, and oriented himself. He nodded. “Down,” he said simply, opening a door to a flight of stairs. “The scientists will have less guards.” The staircase ended at the doors of an elevator, which Bucky frowned at, but tapped the button. 

“Buck,” Steve said, and Bucky snapped to attention. “Could the guards be regrouping, or alerting reinforcements? What should we expect on the way out?” 

Bucky shook his head. “They’ve heard what I did to the other bases,” he said, wiping blood from his forehead- not his own. “The last base I raided, they ran.” 

Steve nodded. “You engaged the auto-destruct.” He'd been there to witness the smoldering remains, always a day too late. Bucky nodded once, and the elevator doors opened onto a white tiled floor. Bucky stared for a moment, vacant, then shook himself and ran. They caught up with him in front of a steel door, his eyes running over the edges, seeking weaknesses. 

“Here,” Bucky said simply. 

“You sure?” Steve asked, running his fingers over the seam of the metal. 

“Safe room,” Bucky replied, frowning. He looked up and smiled, a baring of teeth. Natasha followed his gaze. 

“Camera,” she surmised, and Bucky nodded. She gave the ceiling a half wave and tilted smile. “They know we’re here. How are we getting in?” 

“The door was not built for me,” Bucky replied, fitting his fingers along a seam. Natasha took a step back. “There will be bullets,” Bucky warned the others. Steve stepped forward, fit his fingers in the seam alongside Bucky’s, and looked him in the eye, steady. 

“On three,” Steve said, and Bucky nodded, meeting his gaze. Sam and Natasha stepped away, firearms extended. 

“Did you learn how to fight from each other?” Sam commented. “Because you’re actually about equal amounts of reckless, which is sayin’ something.” 

Steve smiled broadly. “One,” he counted, and Bucky’s lips played into a smirk. “Two,” Bucky replied, tightening his grip. “Three.” 

The door ripped away from its holdings with a loud screech, and Bucky and Steve burst through, back to back, Steve throwing his shield to bounce off bodies that slumped to the floor, Bucky pumping out bullets as quickly and accurately as he could. In the silence that followed, Sam and Natasha stepped through the door. Bucky held up a hand. 

“They are here,” he said to the empty space, and walked over to the walls, tapping the drywall as he circled the room. He stopped at one wall, ran the metal fingers of his left hand carefully along it. He motioned to the group, _stand back_. A bullet shot through the wall and embedded itself in Bucky’s thigh. He grunted in pain, but didn’t hesitate to slam the metal hand through the wall, and pull it back wrapped around the shooter’s throat. He examined the man, tossed him aside with another grunt, and pulled the metal arm through the plaster, making a large enough hole to step through. 

“No guns,” he said without turning around, and the group followed him down. Bucky limped through a maze of dark tunnels, seemingly blind. He paused at one intersection, and turned to the right. 

“You’re following her scent,” Natasha said quietly, moving gracefully behind Bucky, Sam covering their backs. 

Bucky didn’t acknowledge her, the entirety of his focus on his mission. He finally stopped in front of a door with a low whimper. Steve straightened, motioned to Sam and Natasha, as if it weren’t obvious. Bucky turned the handle, and paused, shoulders stiff. Too still. 

A woman was holding the baby in her arms, trembling under the weight of Bucky’s cold, intense stare. She had a gun in her hand, holding it to the baby’s head. Steve went still. 

“Soldier,” the woman said, clearly trying for an air of authority and failing miserably, “stand down.” Bucky stared at her. She fought to hold his gaze. “S-sputnik,” she tried, and Bucky snorted. 

In a movement too quick for even Steve to track, Bucky’s metal hand shot forward, knocked the gun from the woman's hand, and snapped her wrist. She screamed, falling back, and Bucky leaned forward gingerly, gently taking the baby from her grip in his flesh hand. He cradled the bundle to his chest, buried his face in the infant’s hair, scenting. 

The woman darted to the side, retrieving the gun, and Bucky raised his own without looking, perfectly aimed at her forehead. “Don’t try it,” he said wearily, and walked out, his limp pronounced. 

Steve assessed him, taking in the slight rocking motion, the way he cradled the child like he’d die before he let go. If he was showing the limp, he had to be pretty badly injured, certainly worse than he let on. He might be bleeding heavily; Steve couldn’t tell in the dim flicker of recessed fluorescents. Still, Steve knew better than to ask to hold the baby. 

“We’ll cover you,” Steve said decisively. “Sam and Natasha can activate the auto-destruct.” 

Bucky surveyed them. He turned to Natasha and Sam. “Three floors up, fourth door on the left. Blue lever, then red button. Code 2249. Countdown should be five minutes. We will meet you at the top of the staircase.” They turned to leave, and Bucky paused, called out. “Cover Falcon; we need the wings to get back to the car.” Then he turned away, limping through the maze as they followed until he reached the staircase. 

Once Natasha and Sam had left, Bucky started making his way up the rest of the stairs. He stumbled heavily near the top landing, and Steve caught him. Bucky was sweating with pain, and flinched at the contact. 

“Shh,” Steve said, aware he was putting off some pretty heavily protective pheromones, but unable to help it. His mate was injured, and his body wouldn’t be convinced otherwise. Bucky shied away, and Steve let him, dropping his hand. Bucky landed heavily on the top step, body curled protectively around his child, radiating anxiety. 

Steve sat beside him, keeping a careful distance between them. “Don’t worry,” he said gently, “we’ll take care of her.” Bucky curled in tighter, anxiety tripling- and there it was, a hint of his scent. Steve leaned in to chase it before he caught how rude he was being. He wanted to carry Bucky somewhere safe, strip off his armor and check him over for wounds, offer his scent until he calmed down. He gripped the edge of the stair. 

“Do we need to put pressure on the wound?” Steve asked, as practical as he was able to be. Bucky shook his head. 

“Bleeding stops fast,” he mumbled. “Blood clots quicker. Like you.” He started rocking gently, a feral omega self-soothing behavior Steve hadn’t seen since the war. He clenched his teeth down on an empathetic noise of distress. He wondered if they were still bonded; Bucky still had a scent, but faint. Could a bond really be cut out with the scent glands? Who the hell knew what else had even been done to him. 

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity before Natasha and Sam came running up the stairs. Steve stepped onto the roof, offering Bucky a hand up, marveling at the way the metal fingers gently gripped his. 

He’d been right; the roof was deserted. Falcon took each of them down, first Bucky, then Natasha, then Steve. He carried Steve bridal style, grumbling about being an escort service while Steve laughed. He knew Sam was probably doing it for his benefit, but he appreciated it all the same. 

During the drive back to Brooklyn, Bucky was completely silent. He cradled his baby to his chest, murmuring softly when she fussed, sensing his anxiety. She grabbed at his hair, and he smiled like he’d been dreaming of her tugging out strands in little clumps his entire life. He propped her up onto his shoulder, dropping a kiss onto her forehead, and she mouthed at the grimy tac suit. He paused, shifted her, then unbuckled the vest, peeling it away, and lifted Steve’s loose t-shirt. 

Steve didn’t know why he hadn’t been expecting Bucky’s chest to be swollen, but somehow the sight of him gently nudging her head into place to suckle brought sharpfully, painfully home that the child was his, that he’d been taken from her for god knew how long. He looked away, out the window. It felt too private to watch; not Bucky’s exposed and scarred skin, but the way he looked down at her, soft and wondering. 

As soon as they entered the city, Steve could sense Bucky’s rising anxiety even without the baby’s whimpers. When they slowly made their way to his apartment, exhausted and more than a little stunned, Natasha mumbled out, “I call the couch.” 

“Air mattress,” Falcon replied. Bucky limped carefully up the stairs, Steve ready to catch him if he stumbled. 

Bucky settled into a corner of the room, bouncing the fussing baby and murmuring in Russian. Steve sat down next to him, extended his arms. “Why don’t you give her to me, now? You can go wash up.” 

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath and nodded. “You will take care of her,” he said flatly, but Steve knew it was a question.

He met Bucky’s gaze steadily. “Of course.” 

Bucky extended his arms slowly, reluctantly, and gave the baby a parting kiss on the forehead. She fussed, and Steve stood to bounce her. He didn’t have as much experience with babies as Bucky had with all of his younger siblings, but he’d picked up a couple things in the USO. He was so entranced by the way the baby wrapped her fist around one of his fingers that he almost didn’t hear Bucky shifting, knees hitting the floor. 

He turned, and Bucky was kneeling, hands laced carefully behind his head, eyes dead and unseeing. “I’ll cooperate,” he said woodenly. “I’m ready now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is love


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for my moldiest banana peels a la hydra trash party, i.e. explicit non-con with Bucky under Hydra's care, first star (*) to second star, if you want to skip it 
> 
> Upping the rating to explicit, assuming three chapters now, but hey, stuff happens. Next chapter Bucky's gonna be in heat and not super happy about it. There will be cuddles. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your feedback, it made me incredibly happy :)

“Bucky?” Steve froze, taking in Bucky’s rigid posture, his blank, empty eyes. “Hey,” Steve crouched down on the floor, but Bucky gave no indication that he saw him. The baby snuffled and mouthed at Steve’s shirt. He slid closer, shuffling forward on his knees. “You’re scaring me, c’mon,” he pleaded. No reaction. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and he moved his attention to Steve’s face, studying him. “You’ve been looking for me. You, and others. I saw it on the news. I understand. I murdered people, innocent people. I’m not safe.” Bucky flexed his fingers behind his head. “I’m not going to fight, this time.” He paused. “But. I might get confused. It would be best if you restrained me.” 

The baby wiggled in Steve’s grip, completely ignoring Steve’s attempts to soothe her. She started crying, and the air mattress squeaked as Sam shuffled, sighed, and sat up. 

“Steve,” Sam offered, “I don’t think you’ve been watching the news, buddy.” 

Steve shook his head. “I’ve been a little busy.” He looked between Sam and Bucky, bouncing the fussing baby. “Fill me in?” 

“They think you’re hunting the Winter Soldier,” Sam offered. “They don’t know who he is. The files Natasha released only had some mission reports. You’re the only one with his file, I mean, what we’ve got of it.” Sam shrugged one shoulder, looked at Bucky. “You think he wants to take you in, right? Arrest you?” 

Bucky nodded. “For my crimes.” 

“See, that’s pretty much a direct quote,” Sam pointed. 

“If it matters,” Bucky said hoarsely, “I prefer the death penalty. It’s… the consensus, I think. Just,” Bucky shifted on his knees. “make sure, this time.” 

“No,” Steve said sharply. “God,” he ran his hands over his face. “That’s not, we’re not going to do that,” he said fiercely, “and anyone who tries is gonna have to go through me first, got it?” 

Bucky stared at him, but at least he looked more confused than vacant. “What, then.” It was clear he was struggling with words, dropping to a monotone. 

Steve shifted the baby forward, offering her wriggling body to Bucky. “We’re going to help you.” 

Bucky shrank back, staring at his child, shaking his head. “I’m dangerous,” he whispered, struggling. 

“So’s Steve,” Sam pointed out. “You’re gonna be fine. C’mon, man. She wants her mama. You gonna leave her like that?” 

Bucky threw him a look, but extended his arms toward Steve. He took the baby easily, naturally, hefting her onto his shoulder. She snuggled in and cooed, and Sam laughed. 

“Well, that answers that.” Sam collapsed back onto the blow-up mattress and pulled the blanket over his head. “Night,” he called, muffled.

Bucky ran his fingers through the baby’s soft tufts of hair, meditative. He lowered himself down, crossing his legs. “We will talk about this more,” he said finally. “I’m… on borrowed time.” 

“It’s been a long day,” Steve offered, “why don’t you get some rest?”

“Hm,” Bucky swung his right arm gently side-to-side, lulling the baby to sleep. “We will not be able to stay here long,” he replied, contemplative. “Hydra will never stop hunting us.”

Steve felt the hairs on the back on his neck rise. _Cut off one head_. “We’ll talk about it in the morning,” he offered. “Can I ask a favor?” 

Bucky nodded absently, mind elsewhere. 

“Can I,” Steve blushed. “Can I check you over? I know you got shot, at least twice. It’s driving me nuts, honestly.” 

Bucky snorted, stood awkwardly, and looked around. He made his way over to the kitchen stool, pulled it out with his metal hand. Then he tugged on his belt, pulled it through the buckle, and dropped his pants, stepping out of them. Steve ducked away, then made himself look back. Bucky was sitting on the stool, knees casually to either side, motioning him over. 

“Here,” Bucky pointed down to a bloody mark on his calf. He lifted the edge of his boxers (from my laundry, Steve’s back brain crowed), and pointed to a caked mass of blood. “And here.” 

“Jesus,” Steve chided, going for the first aid kit in the bathroom. “You were just gonna leave it like that?” 

Bucky shrugged, unconcerned. “It’d heal.”

Steve took out a long pair of tweezers. “What about the bullet fragments?” 

“Spits ‘em out, after a while,” Bucky noted, sounding vaguely impressed by the marvels of his own body. Steve sanitized the tweezers with a swab of alcohol. 

“You should really see a doctor,” Steve argued extending the tweezers. “It ok if I-?” 

Bucky flinched away. “No doctors.” The baby made a disgruntled sound, tiny fist clenching in Bucky’s t-shirt. “You can do it.”

“Ok,” Steve agreed reluctantly. Bucky barely reacted when Steve reached in and grabbed the bullet, gently withdrawing it. “Well, look at that,” he said, holding the bloody mass up, “it’s the whole thing. Lucky you.” He examined the mark on Bucky’s calf. “Deep graze,” he confirmed, standing to drop the bullet in the trash. He hummed while he cleaned and patched the wounds, content. 

“Remember when your ma was sick in bed,” Bucky started, and Steve froze. It was his accent, not a stilted attempt at communication, easy and reflective. “I got that nail stuck in my foot on a job. I didn’t want to pay for a doctor. I said… I already had my tetanus.” Bucky was looking off into the distance, out Steve’s window at the city. “She talked you through getting it out?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, feeling ridiculously teary-eyed. “You squirmed and yelled a lot. She taught me a lot of stuff, ‘s why I picked it up so well during the war.” 

“You always said, you’d seen worse,” Bucky shook his head. 

“Yeah. Remember that time I coughed up blood?” Steve said, gathering the bloody pieces of cloth in a neat pile. 

Bucky frowned, scanned him. “No. Hope I don’t.” 

Steve threw out the rags, snapped the first-aid kit shut. “I can see that. Stop lookin’ me over. I’m fine.” He walked over to his bedroom, motioning Bucky over. “You get the bed,” he said, pointing. “No arguments. I’ll sleep on the floor here or out there, you pick.” 

Bucky bit his lip. “I can’t sleep with her,” he replied softly, craning his neck down at the baby, who was fast asleep tucked into his shoulder. “I get confused, when I sleep, sometimes. Might accidentally hurt her.” 

Steve nodded, looked around. “She’s pretty small.” He pulled out a drawer, dumped his socks onto the floor, and left the room. When he returned, he had a small pile of blankets, which he layered over the drawer. 

Bucky patted the blankets, satisfied. He carefully laid her down, tucked her in, and let his palm cover her back for a moment when she fussed. Finally, she settled. Still, he watched her for a moment, carefully noting the rise and fall of her chest. Steve joined him. 

“Does she have a name?” Steve whispered. 

Bucky nodded. “Her name is Sarah.” 

Steve choked. “That’s- thank you, Buck. I’m honored.” 

“It didn’t take me long to remember her,” Bucky offered. “She was a good woman. Kind.” He nodded towards the baby. “She needed a good name. Her parents aren’t good, but. She is.” 

“She is,” Steve agreed, watching her. “Do you know who the father is, then?” 

Bucky looked away. “No,” he replied, short. “There was, a program. For the strongest matches. It… wasn’t pleasant. It doesn’t matter who.” He fiddled with the slats in the metal hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, chagrined. “That was a stupid question. I didn’t think.”

“I’m tired,” Bucky replied, monotone. He pulled off the remainder of his gear, minus the t-shirt, and likely a couple of carefully concealed weapons. “You can sleep here.”

Steve pulled down his covers, and Bucky lay down with a sigh. He turned away from Steve, facing the wall. Steve tossed a pillow onto the floor, put a blanket down, and was out like a light. Bucky eventually followed him, lulled by the sounds of his child and his mate breathing, steady and even. 

*

_”Is he lucid?” The asset felt a sharp prick in his thigh, and his head lolled, neck unable to support its weight. “Oh, by 48 hours for sure. Though I don’t know of any heat that’s been induced while the omega was on suppressants, and with the dose we gave him… he’s going to be uncomfortable. It’ll be obvious.”_

_The asset came to with a sharp, cramping pain in his gut. He moaned and rolled over, heaving. Nothing was in his stomach, after a bit of bile. He panted, wondered how long he’d been out, then dismissed it as irrelevant. He couldn’t remember back very far. A guard’s face appeared on the other side of the bars. The asset could feel a burning sensation between his legs, growing in intensity._

_“What,” he gasped, touching his stomach, “what is?”_

_“Damn,” the guard said. “That was fast.” Another guard appeared. “Tranq him,” the first guard ordered. The second shot a projectile, pointed. There was a sting, then darkness._

_“No, you may not,” a woman’s voice said, cross. Beta, by scent. “This isn’t recreational, or whatever it is you do to control him.” The asset opened his eyes. The woman was waving her hand at a guard, also beta. The asset could feel the restraints around his wrists and ankles, tight, unyielding. The arm… deactivated. He was nude. “This is for breeding purposes,” the woman continued, and the asset tracked her warily. “I don’t think I need to tell you what the consequences will be if the child isn’t an alpha. Oh.” She met the asset’s gaze, walked over._

_The asset’s legs trembled with a wave of cramping. “Ill,” he reported. “Not functional.” She laughed, patted a hand on his thigh, like a child. The restraints made it such that his buttocks were in the air, knees to either side, head and elbows touching the table. He tried to shift, but could not. She squeezed the muscle where her hand rested._

_“You’re functional,” she assured him. The hand disappeared, and she moved in front of him, pulling something off of a table. A wide plastic syringe, full of a clear viscous fluid. “Don’t worry.” She moved behind him, and he could hear her place the syringe on the metal table, snap on a pair of gloves. Her hands traveled gently up his thighs, and he was reminded of a horse he’d been careful not to spook in a field, keeping his fingertips on the horse’s flank as he moved into its blind spot. Her hands slid between his legs, pressed his sack forward, parted the lips of his vagina, clinical._

_“Good,” she praised, and he relaxed, though he didn’t understand. If he was doing something good, they wouldn’t hurt him. She touched the syringe at the opening of his vagina, then pressed it in deep, sliding easily through the slick. He gasped, shocked, and let out a high-pitched whine. She chuckled, patted him again. “Here we go,” she said, depressing the plunger. The thick, slick fluid filled him slowly. It didn’t start to burn until she withdrew the syringe, the fluid dripping out over his balls. Then it took him all at once._

_He whined and squirmed in his restraints, trying to escape the burning and cramping, but to no avail. He let out a sob, and the woman massaged his sack, encouraging his ovaries to draw up. His penis was swollen between his legs, dripping seminal fluid, because he was an omega. An omega. This was. He was in heat. The needle prick- induced. He ached._

_“Send the first one in,” the woman ordered, patting his bottom. The door opened, and he could smell- alpha. The man was stripping while he watched, broad and heavily muscled, touching himself. The asset ducked away, only to hear the man cross the room, fist the asset’s hair, yank it up to force eye contact. The asset looked down, submitting, and the man grunted. He circled the asset, moved up onto the low table behind him. The asset felt the tip of the man’s penis rest against his slick, aching vagina, and. Breeding. They were trying to impregnate him. They had planned this. A punishment?_

_The man grabbed the asset’s hips, tips of his fingers digging into the muscle. The asset didn’t carry much fat. “For the glory of Hydra,” the man said, solemn and believing. He pressed in, penetrating the asset in one steady slide. It eased the burn. It was- wrong. He struggled._

_“Nyet,” he gasped, “nyet-.” Something was wrong. He could feel it, an ache difficult to define, somewhere higher than his groin. The man pulled back, and the asset could feel himself bearing down, his body responding on instinct. The man groaned, and thrusted forward. The asset whined, confused and needing. Needing- someone. The man didn’t smell right._

_He gasped and moaned while the man fucked him, squirmed and bucked futilely as the man’s knot grew. He could feel his face getting wet when the man spilled inside, felt it when he finally pulled out and a trickle of warm wetness followed._

_The woman inspected him after the man left, pressed her fingers inside, making him jump. “Ok, he’s ready,” she told the guard, and the door opened again._

_They didn’t clean him off, after. He had the scents of several alphas on his skin, everywhere he touched, between his legs, deep inside him. The asset curled over his aching abdomen, protective, growled when the guards came near._

_“Oh yeah,” one laughed, “he’s caught. Mama bear.” He mimed claws, and the other guard laughed, moving down the hall.”_

*

“Buck. Hey,” Steve’s voice filtered through, jerking him back to consciousness. He sat up straight in one fluid movement, and shuffled backwards. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Steve offered, blinking in the darkness. 

“Yes,” Bucky replied, throat dry. He pulled the blankets up to his neck. “I’m going back to sleep, now.” 

“Ok,” Steve said, frowning as he moved off the bed and back onto the floor. 

Bucky got out of bed when Steve’s breathing evened into a rhythm of sleep, and sat down next to the improvised bassinet. He watched Sarah’s chest rise and fall with little snuffles, soothed by her presence. He’d finally made it out. He’d gotten her out. Her mouth was open, drooling onto the soft fleece blanket, face unlined and peaceful. He leaned back, eyes heavily lidded, and fell asleep against the wall. 

*

_They couldn’t wipe him during the pregnancy. It was too dangerous, for the child. Mostly, they kept him sedated or restrained. By nine months, he was erratic, lashing out at guards and techs._

_On the night the guards came to find him curled on his side, sweating with contractions, he’d looked up at them, teeth gritted and clear-eyed, and said, “James.”_

_“What,” the guard said, amused, snapping open a wheelchair._

_“James… Buchanan Barnes,” he gasped. “James. Sergeant.” He made eye contact with the guard. “32557...”_

_“The asset’s batshit,” the guard shook his head. “Too many drugs.” He tugged on the asset’s arm. “Up you get, cupcake.”_

_The asset’s metal arm shot out and grabbed the man’s hand where it touched him, breaking his fingers. The man screamed, and the asset growled. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he repeated. “Prisoner of Hydra.”_

_Going into labor was effective at stopping his thoughts, for a while. Then all of his attention was consumed by the cries of his child in the other room, his anxiety and grief when they wouldn’t release him from his restraints, wouldn’t bring her to him. He shook his feet, rocked in small increments, sobbed with a flood of hormones and disjointed flickers of memory. After, they wiped him so hard that he drooled on the seat. As soon as he came to, he growled when the techs released him, curled in on himself with a sob._

_“Something… wrong,” he said when he could form words, looking up at them. They ignored him. He ached. He pressed a hand against his stomach. “Not functional,” he said. “Broken.”_

_He wasn’t very good at following orders, after that. There were a lot of wipes._

*

When Bucky woke up, Steve had left the room. Sarah was still in the drawer, he noted with relief. He leaned forward, listening to her snuffles- wet. Those were lung noises. Like when Steve-. Panic seized him. He lifted her from the warm fold of blankets, making her cry in indignation, and ran into the next room. 

“She’s sick,” he blurted out as he slid into the kitchen, shaking. “I didn’t realize-“ he should have, and this is why he can’t be trusted to take care of her, he wasn’t right in the head. 

“Hey,” Steve said, concerned, and dropped his spoon- he was sitting at the table with Falcon, eating cereal. Widow was gone. Steve stood and walked over to Bucky. “Slow down. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“She’s _sick_ ,” Bucky repeated, offering her to Steve. Steve took her, bounced her until she reached out to him and cooed. “Listen,” Bucky said, and Steve cradled her, brought his ear down. The room was quiet for a few short minutes. 

“Hmm,” Steve said, “yeah. We’re gonna have to see a doctor.” He tickled her stomach, and she shrieked with laughter. Steve smiled. “I don’t think she’s too concerned about it, though.” 

Bucky recollected himself. “Doctors. Yes,” he said reluctantly. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” Steve asked. Bucky nodded and extended his arms, taking Sarah back. He sat at the kitchen table, acknowledging Falcon. Steve brought him over a bowl of cereal, and Bucky ate mechanically. 

“We were talking,” Steve looked over at Sam meaningfully, “and we think I should take Stark up on his offer for housing. His security is the best in the world; Hydra would have their work cut out for them, trying to get in there.” 

Bucky sat silently. Sarah started to fuss, mouthing at one of his knuckles. He pulled up his shirt, sliding it to the side, and let her suckle. 

“Buck?” Steve said finally. 

“I’m thinking,” he replied. “Why wouldn’t Stark just have me arrested?” 

Sam flipped open his laptop, turned it towards Bucky, and hit play. 

“Mr. Stark,” a harried reporter called out, running towards him. “How goes the hunt for the Winter Soldier?” 

Stark frowned at her, took a sip of his coffee. “Are we hunting him?” 

“So you’re not involved?” she asked, shoving the microphone in his face. He frowned at it. 

“Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” He turned away. 

“Tell me, then,” she challenged. He looked back over his shoulder, sighed, flipped his shades down. 

“If I do, please broadcast this on every major network so I don’t keep getting asked annoying questions.” He turned around. “Ok, one,” he raised a finger, “I am not interested in hunting the Winter Soldier. Two,” he raised another finger, “yes, the Winter Soldier killed my parents, which the whole world knows now, apparently. No, I’m still not interested in seeking revenge. In fact,” he held up a third finger, and looked directly into the camera, “from what I can tell, he defected and is busy with his own revenge tour, so if he turned up at my doorstep, I would probably help him out. In my opinion, he's doing us all a favor.” He wiggled all of his fingers at the reporter, _goodbye_ , and walked away. 

Bucky watched the frozen frame for a while. 

“Stark has doctors on-call,” Steve offered. “Trust me on this. Let me talk to him.” 

“I don’t have a lot of choices,” Bucky reflected. “I can’t remain on the run. Not with Sarah. If you want me to stay…” he frowned down at the baby in his arms, tickled her until she let go of his nipple. “No biting,” he informed her, giving her one of his metal fingers. She rubbed her face against it, making a happy shriek. “I will do whatever you think is best,” he said to Steve, and retreated back into the bedroom. 

“Call Pepper, first,” Sam advised, and Steve picked up his cell. 

*

Bucky radiated anxiety from the moment he stepped into the car. When he walked into the tower, he wrapped his metal arm, covered in Steve’s sweatshirt, around Sarah, as if ready to deflect bullets from her small body. 

When they went in to see the pediatrician, Bucky’s gaze darted nervously around the room, completely unassuaged by the ponies and hot air balloons painted on the walls. An omega woman entered with a clipboard. 

“Mr. Barnes,” she addressed him with a smile. “Captain Rogers. I'm Doctor Aisha Jones. I’ve been briefed on the situation.” She sat down at the desk, rolled her chair toward them. “This must be Sarah,” she greeted with a coo and a happy smile. Bucky drew Sarah closer to his chest. 

“I have to say,” the pediatrician laughed, “I was surprised. But, well. Mr. Stark leads an unusual life, and every time I’m contacted it’s certainly interesting.” Sarah gave a little shriek. “Healthy set of lungs!” the pediatrician noted. “What a happy baby.” Steve sent her a look of gratitude. 

Bucky sighed in relief, arms loosening. “She has some wet noises, when she breathes.” 

“Can I listen to her lungs?” the pediatrician asked, polite. Bucky nodded, extending his arms, but the pediatrician let him keep her while she listened. “Hmm,” the pediatrician noted, shifting the stethoscope. “Yeah, bit of a cold. She’s been under a lot of stress lately, poor thing.” Bucky stiffened. “She seems content now, though,” she clarified. “I’ve seen enough babies to know what an unhappy one looks like.” 

“Ok, Mr. Barnes,” she drew back, put her hands on her thighs. “I wouldn’t worry about the cold, at this stage. Keep an eye on her, plenty of fluids. Come back if she gets worse. Fever, coughing, colored mucus. While I’m here, though,” she pulled out the chart, “mind if I check her out? Make sure everything else is ok?”

Bucky nodded, and sat through a barrage of questions, listened politely to her advice, let her touch Sarah to examine her. 

“Ok,” she said finally. “Everything seems good to me, which I hope helps you feel a little better.” Bucky nodded, and she hummed sympathetically. “Being a parent is hard. I have names for each one of my gray hairs,” she laughed. Her scent was clean, non-threatening. She leaned in towards him. “Make sure you get yourself checked over some time soon,” she said kindly. “I’m always having to remind the mothers how important their health is. And not only for the sake of the child.” 

Bucky grunted. She wheeled away, tidying her stack of papers. “Hey,” she said teasingly, pointing at him, “it’s important.” She nodded goodbye. “Captain Rogers,” she said politely, and left the room. 

“I like her,” Steve said conversationally. 

“There were no omega technicians,” Bucky replied, which was as good an endorsement as he was likely to give. 

When Steve made his way back to his previously vacant floor with Bucky, there was a bassinet already assembled, and a small mountain of clothing, diapers, and bottles. Bucky took this in, then wheeled the bassinet away from the windows. He then stood on a chair in the corner of the room, scanning the ceiling. “Speakers,” he reported. “No visible cameras.” He placed Sarah gently in the bassinet, and stared at her for a long time. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said softly, and Steve offered his hand. Bucky took it, and Steve squeezed lightly. 

“You’re not alone,” Steve replied. “Not anymore. Never again. Till the end of the line, remember?” 

Bucky leaned into his shoulder with a sigh, and Steve opened his arms. Bucky moved into them, tucked his face into his neck, scenting. Steve smiled. “Remember when I used to come up to your shoulder? Some great alpha I was.” 

Bucky drew back, frowning. “You were,” he insisted. 

Steve snorted. “I could barely get it up when you were in heat.” 

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Not your fault. Your heart was bad. And, anemia. You did good, you had those things you used.” 

Steve made a non-committal noise. 

“You’re gonna understand eventually,” Bucky said, settling back in. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.” 

Steve hummed. “’S funny, I used to think the same thing about you. But Father Maher gave me last rites three times, and there you still were, telling me I wasn’t allowed to scare you like that again.” 

“Tough as nails,” Bucky muttered into his shoulder, and Steve nodded. 

“You’re no lightweight. We’re gonna be ok. Promise.” He squeezed Bucky lightly, scented his hair, chasing that faint hint of his pheromones. 

“Ok,” Bucky said, darting a glance over at Sarah, then leaning back into Steve’s gentle hold with a sigh. “Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unbeta'd and I'm guilty of going back and make corrections after I update, so sorry for any typos. 
> 
>  
> 
> [I tumble](http://www.bookish-but-corruptible.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i upped it again. oh well. this chapter is not so much porn as it is explicit cuddles. 
> 
> warnings for implications of past sexual assault/some aftermath talk. implied underage assault. 
> 
> this tony is heavily influenced by venusm's Born From the Earth, which is a goddamn masterpiece that everyone should read

“You’re going to need one hell of a PR team,” Stark said, in Bucky’s kitchen, where he had apparently been sitting drinking coffee. Stark took a long sip, regarding him. 

Bucky retreated back into his room, put Sarah down in the bassinet, and reappeared, standing in the doorway. 

Stark waved his mug. “There’s more in the pot.” The door to Steve’s room was open- he was out, though Bucky knew he was a text away. Steve had been hovering, as if as soon as he turned his back Bucky would disappear like smoke. Bucky opened a few cabinets until he found the mugs, and filled one from the pot. It was still hot; Stark couldn’t have been here long. 

He sat at the table across from Stark, staring at him over his mug, looking for any clues as to why he might be here. He didn’t know Stark, so he didn’t have a good baseline on him, but he looked serious. Maybe uncomfortable. 

Stark coughed, looked away. “You’re harshing my chill, man. Seriously, if that’s your resting face, it’s... please, stop.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Why are you here.” 

“It’s my tower,” Stark bit back, but then shook his head and held up a hand. “Wait. I practiced this.” He took a deep breath. “I’m here because we need to get you a PR team. You’re going to need to be able to leave the Tower at some point, right? But you don’t trust me enough to listen to my advice and put yourself out there, which makes sense.”

“Public relations,” Bucky said, gleaning something from the string of chatter. “Why?”

Stark pulled out his phone, fidgeted with it, put it back in his pocket. “I loved my parents,” he said, and Bucky was not expecting that. He stiffened. 

“I-“ Bucky started, but Stark held out his hand again. 

“With that blind sort of fucked-up love any kid feels, I guess. They’re pretty much your whole world, and whatnot. But they were also of a social and economic status that valued appearances," he waved a hand, "and they had… certain ideas about what was proper for an upper-crust omega kid.” Bucky sat still, attentive. 

“Anyway,” Stark tumbled on, “after they died, I found out that dear old dad’s will gave the company to Obadiah, who he also appointed as my guardian. He was supposed to look after my purity or whatever until he could sell me to the highest bidder, because dad thought I was too uppity, headstrong, whatever, to choose a proper mate for my status. Dad and I fought a lot. What I could and couldn't do, what my future would be 'in the family,'" he demonstrated air quotes. "But he always trusted Obie. And Obie agreed that I needed to be taken down a peg.” Tony bounced the tips of his shoes- work boots, not dress shoes- on the bottom rung of the chair. 

“It’s been a long time now, so it’s not that big of a deal to me anymore- can’t be, ha, you can’t let the goddamn international media see you sweat. Anyway,” he waved a hand, “let’s just say he was even more of a shit guardian than dad.” Tony tipped his head back and to the side, letting Bucky see. "Look, we match!” he said in a too-bright falsetto. 

There was a thin surgical line over his left bonding gland, silvery with age. Bucky looked at it, cursory, not lingering. Stark gave him a tilted smile, acknowledging Bucky’s carefully neutral expression. “I’m sorry,” Bucky said, but Stark laughed, shook his head. 

“No, you don’t understand. I went out and got it done at a place of ill-repute. I was that desperate to get rid of that creep’s bond. It wasn’t too much of a shock when he turned on me, after Afghanistan.” Stark tapped his fingers lightly on the table. “You know, I spent a long time, when I was younger, hoping someone would notice, and come in and save me. No one did. Had to save myself. I was angry about that, for a long time. When I heard my parents had been murdered, it kind of brought all that back, and I thought about what my life would’ve been like if they hadn’t died.”

Bucky held his breath, considered Sarah in the next room, wondered where Steve was. Stark didn’t have his suit, but this was his building. He was a sitting duck. 

“I concluded that it probably wouldn’t have been much different,” Stark said dryly. “But I also thought, hey, the same things probably crossed your mind when you were alone and no one ever gave a shit, and you were a survivor for longer than I was. You got yourself out as soon as you knew what was up and what was down, and could make a break for it. I respect that. But from here on out, you’re going to need a hell of a lot of help- whether you realize it or not. And now, I’m a very powerful and brilliant man, and I can do something about it. So I will.” 

Stark got off of his chair, put the mug in the sink, and patted Bucky on the shoulder as he passed. “If you try to talk about this, ever again… I will ignore you. Aggressively.” Stark walked toward the door, an easy lope. Affected. “Soon,” he called over his shoulder, “like, within 48 hours. Don’t you think it’s time you were free?” 

Bucky watched the door shut behind him, then went back to feed Sarah. He picked her up out of the bassinet with both hands, leaned in and blew a raspberry on her stomach so he could hear her giggle and shriek. He looked her in the eyes, and she reached her hands toward him, making grabbing motions. 

“I was not expecting that,” he told her. Then he went back to his routine, feeling if not at ease, then something close to it. 

*

Bucky missed the meeting with the PR team. He was too busy vomiting into the toilet. 

It didn’t take long for Steve to appear, head hovering anxiously as he crouched down next to Bucky. 

“Hey,” Steve said, carefully pulling Bucky’s hair to the side, then leaning back. “Hit the liquor too hard?” 

Bucky actually laughed at that, then laid his head on the toilet seat. “I wish.” Steve pressed a hand to his forehead. 

“Feels like you’ve got a fever,” he mused, “maybe we should-“

Bucky waved him off, hit by a wave of memories of pain and scalpels, terror and humiliation. “It’s fine. I’m allowed to get sick. I’m gonna go,” he pushed himself up, feeling his legs wobble, “sleep it off.” 

Steve watched him retreat to the bedroom, but didn’t follow. “Do you get sick, though?” he called. 

*

He didn’t sleep it off. When Steve came in to check on him, shook him awake after he felt his forehead, Bucky rolled onto his side to heave and immediately knew what it was. He was sitting in an entire puddle of slick, soaking straight through his clothes and into the bedspread. He stiffened, sat up. 

“Buck,” Steve backed off, “you’re-“

“I know,” Bucky growled, too mean. But, hell. This shouldn’t be happening. Not so soon after giving birth. It meant something was wrong. It meant-

“Hey, it’s going to be ok,” Steve soothed, correctly and infuriatingly interpreting Bucky’s harshness. “We’ll go see someone, get this figured out.” 

“Doctors,” Bucky shook his head. He stood up to get a glass of water, and a cramp hit, jarring and intense. He breathed in a gasp, hunching, and let it out in a soft whine. 

“Let me help,” Steve said, looping an arm around Bucky’s waist to support him. They made it to the kitchen, and Bucky practically fell into his seat with the glass of water. Steve held his hand, and picked up his phone. 

“Sam’s going to watch Sarah for a bit, ok? He’s got nieces and nephews- he’s good with kids. And I’m going to tell my doctor we’re going to bring you down.” It wasn't an order- it was a question. 

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, gripped it hard, then pulled them back through with a vicious tug. “Ok, I’ll. Ok.” Steve ran his fingers in circles on Bucky’s palm with one hand, texted with the other. 

Steve gave Bucky a hand up. “Remember when you avoided the medics, after Azzano, and I let you? Looked you over myself instead, grumbled at you a bit?” 

Bucky thought for a moment, shakily making his way back to the bedroom. Steve sat him down in a wooden rocking chair- easier clean up, he thought with shame. “Yeah, actually. I told you I’d make it up to you, and then,” he breathed, “that’s when we bonded.” 

Steve handed him a fresh pair of pants and a thick pair of underwear. “Make it up to you,” he snorted. “That was a line. You were shameless. It was ‘why don’t you slip me some,’ using me as your furniture ‘till I paid attention.” Steve stripped the sheets and threw them in the hamper. 

“You were finally strong enough to bond,” Bucky remembered. 

“Yeah,” Steve smiled. He gave Bucky a hand again. “Up,” he said, and took most of Bucky’s weight. “This is probably payback for all of those times you carried me to the doctor, or begged one to come over.” 

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Bucky said, wryness creeping into his tone. “I think if we’re doing this right, though, I should complain and badmouth you more.” 

Steve shrugged with the other shoulder, opened their door. Sam was on the other side. “Thanks for this,” Steve said, and Sam gave him a casual salute. Bucky wanted to melt into the floor. 

Steve hit the elevator button. “I only did that so you knew I was ok," he continued. "Didn’t want to act too bad off, freak you out.” 

Bucky snorted, walked into the elevator. “I was freaked out plenty.” He started shivering, thinking of going to medical. He’d figured he’d have to go at some point, but. Not so soon. He wasn’t ready. 

Steve placed a broad, warm palm on his back. “I’ll be right there.” 

Bucky sat on a foam table that had been kitted out in some sort of kid’s cartoon stickers, a little girl with an animated backpack. He traced a finger over them. He had a feeling it was deliberate, and he should really be insulted; instead, he was soothed. It wasn’t Hydra’s style at all. 

When two doctors came in, he wasn’t proud of it, but he shrank back against Steve. It was either that or start attacking people. They weren’t dressed in the typical white coats, which helped. One was an alpha woman wearing an argyle sweater, the other an omega male with a typical gingham button-down. Where did they keep finding these omega doctors, anyway? It was possible he’d just been in a sexist cult for too long to judge what constituted a normal omega profession, he supposed. 

They introduced themselves, let Bucky nod mechanically and forget their names within seconds, then went to work, listening to his heart, not commenting when he sat on the metal hand. 

“Breakthrough heat,” the omega male doctor said sympathetically, “you got somewhere you felt relaxed and safe enough, and _boom_.”

“It’s not just that though,” the alpha female said, sitting back so she was in Bucky’s line of sight, but not blocking the door. It was a body language thing alphas were sometimes aware of- don’t be threatening, smile and give an omega lots of space when you’re in the laundry room. Bucky knew somewhere, that this was how social convention went. He gripped the edge of the table, white-knuckled, as another wave of cramping passed. “Do you know if you were on suppressants?” the doctor continued. “Or any other form of hormonal control?” 

“Leuprorelin-k,” Bucky gritted out. “I heard them talking about it. Don’t know if they used anything else.”

Both of the doctors looked grave for a moment, then recovered quickly. The omega doctor sighed. “Yeah, that one’s nasty. It’s been outlawed for, oh, about three decades.” He fiddled with his glasses. “It’s strong, and it works pretty well as a suppressant. Unfortunately, it was tested mostly on betas, and omega hormonal systems are a bit…tricky.” 

“Have you had any seizures?” the alpha doctor asked. “Vaginal bleeding, nausea in the morning, sweats and chills?” 

Bucky nodded. “Bleeding, yes. Nausea. Sometimes.” He felt a wave of concern from Steve, and wondered again whether they were still bonded. He couldn’t feel Steve whenever he wanted to tune in, but sometimes, when the emotions were particularly strong, or they were close enough, it was like he caught the ghost of a feeling, brushing him and leaving goosebumps as it passed by. 

“I don’t want to alarm you,” the omega doctor said, and Bucky felt his pulse kicking up, “because you’ve lived with the suppressants for a while, and you’re clearly built of strong enough stuff that you’re relatively unaffected. But these were pulled off the market because they can literally shred your uterus, given enough time.” 

Bucky sat on his flesh hand too, for good measure. “I carried a child.” 

“Yes,” the omega doctor said. “Your body has extraordinary healing capabilities. That’s probably why it’s responding so aggressively- it knows your hormonal system was out of tune for a long time, and it’s taking the chance to put it right. It’ll get better in a few days. Your next heat might be a little heavier, but they should be normal after that.” 

“You won’t suppress the heat,” Bucky surmised, biting his tongue. It felt like he was going against orders, questioning the doctor’s judgment. He tried to keep himself from flinching. 

The alpha woman shook her head. “If you weren’t you, you’d probably already have hemorrhaged. It’d be too dangerous. I’m sorry.” 

Bucky felt his hands shake where they were pinned. He didn’t want to go through this again. He was burning with humiliation. He hated feeling this helpless. Mostly, he hated his body for betraying him, yet again. 

“We’ll give you some painkillers, muscle relaxants,” the omega doctor continued. “You have a right to be as comfortable as possible. But it’s going to be hairy no matter what, and I really am sorry about that.”

“Not your fault,” Steve offered, leaning against Bucky’s side. 

The omega doctor gave him a half smile. “I’ll go get the prescriptions. I’m going to raid the cabinets- I'd rather send you back to bed than to a pharmacy.” 

“You’ll need someone to stay with you,” the alpha doctor said. “I’m still worried you could have problems with bleeding. And someone needs to make sure you stay hydrated.” She stood and tugged her sweater down. “Can we draw blood before you go? We’re trying to be as non-invasive as possible, but it’d give me peace of mind to make sure you don’t have anything else lingering in your system that might be influencing this.” 

Bucky silently extended his flesh arm. “Do it quick,” he said shortly. “I’m…having trouble.” 

“Oh,” the alpha doctor said, and opened the cabinet behind her. She drew blood neatly and efficiently while Bucky forced himself to let her. 

The omega doctor returned with a couple of bottles of pills, explained the instructions, then let Bucky go on an order of bed rest. Then, to Bucky’s chagrin, he slipped him a clear silicone dildo. “I don't want to embarrass you, but. Better to be prepared,” he offered apologetically. 

Bucky shoved the object into his loose sweatpants, and let Steve help him to the elevator. 

When he finally got back to bed and Steve put down the waterproof fitted sheet, Bucky laid down and curled into a ball. He squirmed and panted, whimpered with each wave of pain. Steve kept trying to offer comfort, but Bucky pushed him away. He didn’t have the heart to tell Steve, who sat patiently on the floor beside the mattress, that he didn’t want to be seen like this. He laid on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, only to remember being shackled face-down the last time he was like this. 

He sat up and rocked, trying to block the pain, the flow of thoughts. He covered his ears like that would stop it, and Steve handed him a glass of water. He took it and turned away, gulping it down. 

“I know how scary it is to not be in control of your own body,” Steve said carefully, taking the glass back. 

Bucky shook his head. “It’s not like that. You don’t know.” 

“Help me understand,” Steve said, setting the glass down. “Please.” 

He’d been thinking the words for the past hour anyway, over and over again. “I hate it,” he said, squeezing the metal fingers around his flesh wrist until it bruised. Like the marks from the cuffs. 

“Hate what?” Steve prompted, clearly doing his best. Bucky laughed. Since when had he learned to be careful with anything he said?

“My goddamn body,” Bucky spat out, letting the slats of the metal pinch his skin, the sharp pain drowning the ache between his legs. “The way it just goes fucking, _wet_ , every time someone touches it. How damn _needy_ and _easy_ it is.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. What it’s like.”

Steve reached out his hands, rubbed his thumbs over Bucky’s fists, encouraging them to open. “It’s just your biology,” he said simple. “Nothing wrong with it.” 

Bucky yanked the metal hand out of Steve’s grip, threw it backwards, and slammed a fist through the plaster. “They were right!” he yelled, shaking. “It’s _weak_! Omegas are built to be, fucking, passive, so it's easy for alphas to bend us over and use us. And we _enjoy_ it. How fucking sick is that? You can say whatever the hell you want otherwise, but it’s biology, I can’t fight it, I,” he drew in a deep breath, and to his horror, it caught. Then it caught again, and he was sobbing, ugly and stilted, trying to regain control with every breath and failing. 

“I’m going to kill them,” Steve said evenly, carefully placing his hands on Bucky’s. “Each and every one of them who ever made you believe that.”

Bucky laughed, short through his apparent uncontrollable emotions, which, way to fit the stereotype again. “It’s true,” he argued, “it doesn’t matter what I think about it, because it is.” 

“Come here,” Steve said, “please.” Bucky looked up, and Steve wiped a hand under his eyes. He was crying too, just more quietly. Bucky shuffled over and let Steve put his arms around him, but stayed stiff. 

“What they did was torture, ok?” Steve said, keeping his grip loose. “It was the worst kind of torture, and they knew it was effective because they wanted to control you, and humiliate you,” Steve growled, “and the most effective way to torture you was to make you believe it was your fault.” He nuzzled Bucky’s hair, and Bucky tilted into it, allowing it, starved for touch because of the heat and hating himself for it. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Steve said firmly, running a palm down his spine, rhythmic and soothing. “There’s sure as hell something wrong with them.” 

Bucky could feel himself relaxing into the gentle strokes. “I don’t know,” he said, and felt Steve stiffen. “There are some things wrong with me. I know I'm an ass in the morning.”

Steve hiccupped a laugh, startled. “Bucky,” he said, and then the laughter became a short sob. Steve buried his face in Bucky’s hair. 

“I need to lay down,” Bucky said finally, and Steve dropped his hands like he’d touched a hot pan. Bucky curled in on his side, and motioned Steve over. “Come. Be my blanket,” he said, stripping out of his shirt and pants. It was a joke; he’d already sweated through his clothes, and they were so wet they made a smacking noise when they hit the ground. 

Steve took off his own shirt, leaving his sleep pants on, and cuddled up behind him, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist. Then he buried his nose in the back on Bucky’s neck, pulling his hair to one side so he could nuzzle the shorter hairs at the base. Bucky sighed and relaxed into the hold, feeling his body settle at finally being touched, his mind a few grudging steps behind. 

Eventually, the heat ramped up, and Bucky was too far gone to be ashamed by the amount of slick he was producing. He moaned and squirmed, arched his back. “Hurts,” he panted, unable to think about anything but the burning and cramping. He rubbed back against Steve’s dick, and Steve made a small, cut-off noise. 

“I know,” Steve soothed, “I’m sorry.” He pulled back one of his hands, rubbed it over his own scent glands, then over Bucky’s. Bucky took his hand in his, brought it up to inhale deeply, making a high-pitched whine, distinctly omegan. Steve kissed down the side of his neck. 

“Hey baby,” Steve said, scratching his fingers over Bucky’s stomach. “Tell me what you want.” 

Bucky snorted. “I used to do, the pet names.” 

“I like ‘em,” Steve countered. Bucky ground back against him, making Steve whimper. Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s lower stomach, broad and firm, and Bucky’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He shuffled out of his boxers and shoved two fingers in his cunt, roughly jerking himself to a quick orgasm. He sighed, and snuggled back into Steve, hazy. 

Steve kissed and petted him until he started to get restless again. Finally, he sat up, leaned down to pick through his sweatpants, and returned with the dildo. 

“Oh,” Steve colored, “you want me to?” 

“Not a good idea,” Bucky shook his head. “I might get confused, hurt you.” He sat the dildo up on the bed, shifted up onto his knees, and lowered himself onto it with a deep groan. It wasn’t difficult; he was more than slick and open enough for it. It pressed nicely against his walls, just enough that he could clench down on it, stretch the cramping muscles inside, but not too big that it was painful. He full-out moaned when it bottomed out, hitting his cervix, the base pressing against his opening. He ground down on it and sighed in relief, lips parting, toes flexing. 

Steve’s jaw was hanging open. Bucky lifted two fingers and tapped beneath it, amused. 

“I’m gonna,” Steve pointed to the bathroom, and hopped awkwardly over. Bucky closed his eyes and hummed, stroking his dick steadily, enjoying the way it felt, for now. He’d sure as shit be ashamed and self-conscious when the heat ended, but that was a problem for another day. His orgasm took him by surprise, and he moaned loudly, clenching down hard and riding the dildo through it, whimpering when he felt the tip of his dick going slick, the orgasm turning sharp and overwhelming. He panted there for a moment, coming down. Then he pulled himself off, laid on his side, and hummed in content, rubbing his cheek on the soft top layer of cotton bed sheet. 

Steve came back in, looking flushed, and laid down, propping his head on his fist. He looked at Bucky’s lazy contentment, smiled, and kissed his shoulder. Bucky made a pleased noise, and Steve continued, kissing down his side. The touches were sweet, affectionate, and not particularly sexual. Bucky laid down on his back, and Steve pressed a careful series of kisses over his stomach, looking up to gauge his reaction. Bucky blinked back, and Steve rubbed his cheek back and forth over Bucky’s stomach, finally laying his head down. 

Bucky ran his fingers through Steve’s soft, fine hair, and Steve sighed happily, giving him another kiss- _thank you_. He registered Steve shifting onto his hip, still round and soft from the pregnancy, and resting a hand on the gentle swell of Bucky’s stomach, rising and falling with each breath. 

“Softie,” Bucky accused in a mumble. 

“Mm,” Steve replied, nuzzling Bucky’s hip. “You’re soft, here. I like it.” He looked up at Bucky, earnest, pupils blown. Bucky probably didn’t look much better. “You’re safe,” Steve assured him sagely. “Gonna protect you better now. Safe here.”

“Ok, gorgeous,” Bucky said, biting back a smile, drifting on a flood of endorphins, pain dull and distant. “I’ll protect you, too.”

Steve smiled dopily. “Yeah.” 

“You’re drugged,” Bucky commented. 

“Yeahh,” Steve smiled. “Heat. Smells nice.” 

“You are weird,” Bucky patted his hair. “Go to sleep.” 

Steve shifted off of Bucky’s hip, cuddled in behind him, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist. “This ok?”

Bucky moved back into his embrace, sighed when Steve gave him a gentle squeeze. He really couldn’t be bothered by anything right now. This was…extremely comfortable. This was just right, his back brain purred. He relaxed into Steve’s hand petting down his side. 

When he woke up, he looked up at the wall and frowned. 

“I broke the wall,” Bucky commented aloud, guilty. 

Steve snorted awake, completely graceless. “What?”

Bucky pointed, frowning. “Broke it.” 

Steve snorted and broke down into giggles, staring at the fist-shaped hole and gigantic cracks branching out from it. “I know how to fix it. I might have done it, uh. Once, or twice.” He nuzzled aggressively into the side of Bucky’s neck inhaling deeply on his scent glands. “Not all gone,” he said casually, then returned to his snuffling. 

“Yes,” Bucky sighed at the contact, “not all of it. Just enough to make me easier to control.”

Steve growled, kissed over them. Bucky reached a hand back and patted his head. 

“Ok now,” Bucky reassured him, and Steve made a sad noise, pulling Bucky to him. Bucky sucked in a breath when another ripple of cramping hit him, and Steve rubbed firmly at his lower abdomen. 

“Can you get Sarah back?” Bucky asked, grimacing. He was starting to feel anxious, even through the nonchalance of a well attended-to heat; she'd been too far away, for too long.

“Yeah,” Steve said, and was up like a shot, grabbing his phone, tapping at the screen. “Sam says two minutes.” 

“Hmm.” Bucky rolled out of bed, patted over to the kitchen, and put on a cup of coffee. Steve set yet another glass of water down in front of him, and he drank it dutifully. Steve gathered his hair back when it got caught in his face, and Bucky reached back and twisted it into a bun, pushing a coffee stirrer through it. “I have- I had, sisters,” he commented, and Steve just squeezed his shoulder. 

When Sam opened the door, Bucky extended his arms, and Sarah came happily. 

“She wasn’t happy to leave her mama,” Sam admitted, “but I distracted her with funny faces and cartoons.” 

Bucky nuzzled into Sarah’s hair, breathing her scent, and made a happy noise under his breath. Steve bounded over to the door, and Sam’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Dude, you should see you. Both of you.” He waved. “I think it’s time for me to go.” 

“Thank you,” Steve called, and Sam waved a hand. 

“Yeah, yeah, babysitter, chauffer. This is not what they told me when I signed up for the Avengers.” Sam said in a put-upon tone, but smiled. 

Steve laughed and waved him away. After they all came back inside, hydrated, and ate, Steve built a nest of blankets on the bed. They laid down, Sarah’s small body between them, and marked one another with their scents. Bucky couldn’t offer Steve a proper bond or a particularly functional mate, but Steve didn’t look like he minded. He looked between Sarah and Bucky, smiling helplessly, like he had the whole world in arm’s reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> civil what? civil union? my faves getting along and helping each other out?? lovely. *skips through a field of daisies and denial*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is boring. sorry. plot is relevant.

Bucky’s swaddled tight in blankets, curled on his side and shivering. Steve is sitting on the bed next to him with Sarah cradled in one arm, the other attempting to spoon feed her some kind of green goop from a jar. She makes a face, sticks her tongue out over her lips, and spits it onto Steve’s arm. He sighs, leans over to grab the towel, and wipes up her face, then his arm. 

“She doesn’t like it,” Steve comments, running a palm down Bucky’s sweaty back. Bucky turns and disentangles himself from the damp blankets, eyes fever-bright as he surveys Sarah. She notices the attention, and reaches out to him. He playfully nibbles her fingers, then sits up with a groan. 

“She’s starting to get tired of the yellow stuff too,” Steve notes. Bucky shrugs off his sweaty blankets with his nose wrinkled, then gathers them and picks them up, leaning against the wall for a moment when he stands. 

“We’re gonna have to find something else,” he grunts, then makes his way to the bathroom. “Yellow stuff. Formula, if she’s still hungry. For now,” he instructs, shivering at the air on his feverish skin. “I’m- bath.” The taps turns, then starts running. Bucky’s been switching between baths and sweating out the heat while he tries to sleep for the past day or so, which the doctors say means it’s leaving his system. 

“You need help?” Steve asks, and Bucky grunts- no. “I can’t believe you were just going to give me a baby,” Steve says, going to the kitchen to warm up the yellow stuff, and knowing full well Bucky can hear him. He takes the rocking chair, carefully balancing the bottle and spoon in one hand. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he calls, dipping the tiny spoon. He makes whooshing airplane noises and circles the spoon, which amuses Sarah enough to eat it. 

“No one does,” Bucky replies from the bathroom, then groans as Steve hears the splash of him lowering his body into the water. “You’re doing fine.” 

Steve changes Sarah’s diaper and puts the sweaty towels in the wash before Bucky reappears. “Go to sleep,” Bucky orders, lifting Sarah from his arms. Steve starts to protest, but Bucky just shakes his head, easily hauls Steve from the rocking chair with one arm linked under Steve’s armpit, and trades places with him. Steve makes a startled squawk at being lifted like he’s 90 pounds again, and sits down on the bed, staring at Bucky. Bucky pushes on the balls of his feet, making the chair rock. “Four hours,” Bucky says, and Steve is out a few minutes after his head hits the pillow. 

*

After Steve wakes, Bucky gets in a few decent hours of rest. He only wakes up panting and sweating three times, and he quickly remembers where he is. Steve rubs his back until he falls back asleep, then gets up to put Sarah in the baby carrier on top of the dryer. She giggles and squirms when it starts up with what has to be their fourth load of sheets (Bucky is drinking water from a gallon jug trying to replace the fluids he’s lost). 

“Easy to please,” Steve tells her, and she bounces her feet happily. When the dryer cycle ends, he swings the carrier back and forth, amused by her hysterical giggles. “Adrenaline junkie,” he stage-whispers. 

Bucky appears in the doorway, looking a hell of a lot better, a smile playing across his lips. He shakes his head when he goes to retrieve the orange juice, drinking straight from the carton. “You’re gonna teach her all your bad habits,” he informs him, body language relaxed, voice smooth. 

“Whoooosh,” Steve says to Sarah as he swings the carrier again, eliciting another peal of laughter. “It’s not-,” he starts, and Sarah claps her hands. Steve stops dead, letting the carrier go still. Sarah beams up at him, wiggles to urge him on. 

“Uh,” Steve says, “I thought that wasn’t supposed to be possible for a few more months.” 

Bucky’s set down the orange juice, fridge still open, looking ashen. He’s staring at Sarah. Steve backtracks hastily. 

“But Sarah’s doctor said every baby is different, right?” Steve follows up. Bucky doesn’t look reassured. “I mean, I’m sure there’re lots of stories of babies clapping at five months.” 

“She just turned five months,” Bucky counters quietly, still watching Sarah. “We can get different food tomorrow,” he finishes, non-sequitur, and closes the fridge before he goes over to the pantry. 

*

They sleep that night with Sarah in the bassinet, Steve getting up to change and feed her periodically. Bucky turns and twitches a lot in his sleep, but thankfully doesn’t get up running to the toilet or panting through a panic attack. When Steve’s up again, Bucky’s already out of bed.

Steve pads over to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, where he finds Sarah sitting up in her carrier. Bucky, apparently, has also deposited the carrier in the center of Sarah’s playpen. She’s gnawing on a large circle of hard plastic that is violently orange. He greets her by leaning over to kiss her head, then makes his way over to Bucky. 

“You put the playpen together?” Steve asks, where Bucky is putting spoons from the washer back into the drawer. 

“Can’t be sure what her development will be like,” Bucky shrugs, turning around. His hair is trimmed a little shorter, his face cleanly shaven. Steve tries not to react, but God- the difference is monumental. “She might start crawling before we expect it,” Bucky continues. “Better to be prepared.” 

“I guess,” Steve allows, glancing over at her. She’s moved on to the green plastic thing, gnawing with a gusto. 

“She’s been sitting up fine,” Bucky comments, lips twisting into a frown. He puts the last spoon into the drawer, closes it, and sits up on the counter. It gives him a good line of sight. 

Steve opens the cabinet next to his head, takes out a bowl. He taps the frown line between Bucky’s eyebrows. “You think she has the serum,” Steve says casually, setting the bowl down behind him. Bucky sighs. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Whatever they pumped me up with- yeah. I think so. And who knows if they did something, to,” he waves a hand. The father. Steve nods. 

“Why is that a problem?” Steve asks, though he already knows the answer. 

Bucky blows out a breath. “Well, first, no one’s going to know how that’ll affect a baby’s development,” he laughs a little hysterically. “Then there’s the fact that Hydra used my body specifically to have a super soldier baby, to, to mold for the cause- do you know how many people would want to take a supersoldier kid away?” 

Steve just listens, stays quiet. Bucky’s clearly been thinking about this for a while. 

Bucky looks at Steve’s shoulder. “What if, someone takes her, and locks her away to experiment on her and train her, and she thinks no one cares about her, thinks that them using her is _normal_. And what if, I’m captured and I can’t get to her, or they decide to kill me after all, and she gets left behind with no one to protect her.” Bucky stares over at her, runs a hand roughly through his hair. 

“I will never let that happen,” Steve says seriously. Bucky meets his eyes. “Not to either of you.”

Bucky looks at him, snorts, shakes his head with a sigh. Then he leans forward and pulls Steve in by his shirtsleeve, cradles Steve’s head in his hands, and kisses him. It’s a little frantic, Bucky’s body pressed against his, tongue pressing between his lips, fingers sliding through Steve’s hair. Steve opens for it automatically, letting out a little moan when Bucky’s fingernails scrape over the back of his neck. Then Bucky abruptly pulls back, and he’s looking at Steve with something like gentle pity. 

“You won’t be able to stop them,” Bucky says, sure, and his body presses against Steve’s in a brief moment of warmth before he steps off the counter. Bucky pulls out Steve’s box of cereal and places it on the counter. 

“Wear your best disguise,” Bucky instructs. “We’re going out.” 

*

When Steve appears with the thick-framed glasses, baseball cap, and zip-up, Bucky stares at him. 

“That the best you’ve got?” Bucky asks, infant strapped to his chest in some sort of intricate fabric sling. He’s in a dark grey hoodie of his own, in a pair of dark wash jeans someone left for them, his hair tidily up in a bun and out of his face. He looks scrubbed clean, bags under his eyes fading. 

Steve frowns, tugs at his shirt. “It was good enough for Natasha.” He even decided not to shave his few days’ worth of stubble. 

Bucky gives him a full bark of a laugh at that. “I doubt it.” He motions Steve to the door. “I guess there’s not much else we can do, short of prosthetics,” he allows. 

“You’re talking…more,” Steve says, replacing the word “better” a little too late. 

“The solider went on stealth missions,” Bucky replies easily, elevator doors shutting behind them. “I always knew how to talk naturally, if I needed to. It’s just… hard, sometimes.” 

Silence lingers between them all the way to the car, which Bucky has apparently called and asked for. “There’s an… app,” Bucky shows Steve his StarkPhone, “that tells you when peak hours are for different stores. So, there shouldn’t be a lot of people.” 

“I was starting to go a little stir crazy,” Steve admits, “and I got to leave the room a few times.” 

“Me too,” Bucky confesses. “Heat’s gone, now. And I don’t think anyone should recognize me,” he says hesitantly. 

“I barely did,” Steve reassures him. “I mean, in a good way.” He winces. 

*

Bucky stares at the market aisle. There are baby foods marked “organic” in little sealed packages, jars in various shades of brown, green, and orange. There are even little yogurt cups marked “baby.” He pulls out the list from the pediatrician, and stalks the aisle. Sarah is looking around and cooing, interested in her surroundings, but doesn’t move much in her swaddle of linen. 

“I’ll- diapers,” Steve says faintly, and moves to the end of the aisle. There are at least ten different kinds of diapers. On second thought. 

He takes Bucky’s basket gently from his fingers, and gets a cart. 

“Why do the lights need to be so bright?” Bucky comments, placing another orange jar in the cart. “And, so many?” He finally moves on to the diapers, frowns at them a moment, and narrows in on a brand. “This is ridiculous,” he points. 

Steve picks up the package. “How is this different from the one next to it?” He takes a step back to survey the wall, and bumps into someone behind him, who staggers. Steve swirls and grabs them, hauling them upright before they fall over, and apologizes profusely. 

Bucky takes the package of diapers back. “It’s not,” he says. “Different name.” He gives the person a smile so friendly and mock-exasperated it startles Steve. As soon as the person leaves the aisle, the expression drops. “Let’s check out,” Bucky suggests, and wheels the cart over. 

The cashier plays a bit with Sarah, making funny faces, and Bucky keeps up a pleasant stream of chatter while she scans their cart. When everything’s loaded into bags, Steve takes them and leaves the cart behind. He knows Bucky must be flagging and trying to hide it, and the more the lady talks the more he unconsciously curls to the side, protecting Sarah from the storefront’s floor to ceiling windows. 

Steve’s dropping the groceries into the car, Bucky standing next to him, when he freezes. He’s seen it enough in his periphery vision before to know what’s coming. He’s developing an intuitive sense. 

Bucky picks up on his body language, but not before the camera flashes. 

“Shit,” Steve mutters under his breath. 

“Hey, Cap!” the reporter calls. “Who’s the baby mama?” Steve frowns at him, and the reporter snaps a picture of that. Bucky’s gotten the idea by now and is ducking into the car. Steve follows him. 

The car takes off and leaves the reporter behind, and they sit in silence. Bucky, surprisingly, is the first to break it. 

“It’s ok,” he says, resigned. “It was only a matter of time.”

“It’s not like he can prove anything,” Steve says reasonably. “There’s no way they’ll recognize you, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, I switched tenses. whoops. 
> 
> I know where this is going, thank the lordt.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told y'all I wouldn't leave you. Here ya go!

They recognize him. 

Steve barely makes it to the evening before Bucky’s face is plastered across the news. He’s half-shaded by the car and a curtain of hair, but the photo software these days is really something. 

“CAPTAIN AMERICA SHELTERS INFAMOUS ASSASSIN,” reads one headline. “SHEILD RECRUIT?” reads another. He growls, and he hadn’t noticed Bucky coming to stand silently beside him until Bucky flinches at the tone. 

“Sorry,” Steve apologizes quickly, moving over to let Bucky sit on the couch. He acquiesces, bouncing Sarah in his arms absently as he watches the headlines scroll. 

“I took down SHIELD,” Steve complains. “Why would I be recruiting you?” 

“That’s one of the better headlines,” Bucky notes absently. “Most of them aren’t even paying attention to Sarah, huh?” 

Steve huffs. 

“That’s good,” Bucky says finally. He takes the remote from the coffee table, and shuts the TV off. “Didn’t think they’d involve you this much. Sorry.” The line of Bucky’s shoulders is stiff, and he’s carefully out of Steve’s space, as far on his end of the couch as he’s able. 

“Hey,” Steve says gently, “I don’t-“

The Avengers assemble alarm blares. Steve answers it with a short annoyed grunt. 

“Really?” Steve frowns at the ceiling. “Damnit.” He looks at Bucky, practically vibrating in place. “I can stay.” 

Bucky snorts. “Go on, get your shield. You’d be annoying as hell if you stayed.” He waves at him. “We’ll work out a system when you come back. Maybe take shifts.”

Steve leans down and kisses him on the forehead, then dashes to his room. Bucky hears a loud thump, then the unmistakable clang of the shield; it doesn’t really sound like anything else he’s ever heard. 

“Ow,” Steve says pathetically, and Bucky’s startled into laughter. Steve comes out fully dressed, and he looks like it’s Christmas and his birthday in one when he sees Bucky laughing at him. 

“You’d better be fuckin’ careful, or I’m comin’ after you,” Bucky warns him. 

“Uh huh,” Steve says, distracted, and spills out the door. 

“He’d better not make me come after him,” he says to Sarah. “I’m fuckin’ comfortable.” He kicks his feet up and watches the rumors fly wild on the screen. 

Eventually, he gets bored and antsy enough to lift up the picture in the living room and pull out the gun from the hole he knocked in the wall behind it. He’s got the rag in his teeth, parts strewn when he feels it. A shiver that puts the hairs on the back of his neck to attention, some shift in the peace of the afternoon. 

He closes his eyes, and hears it. A soft clink in the stairwell, whispers of movement. He feels his adrenaline spike, his mind settle into the eerie calm conditioning gave him. He reassembles the gun in a few sharp movements, feels his expression go blank. 

Twenty, at least. Probably more. They’ll have come prepared. There’s no one else here. He’s a fish in a barrel, and there’s no one here. He could probably fall and survive, but not with Sarah. And he doesn’t think they’re here for him, not really. 

“JARVIS?” he says. It’s quiet. He can’t say why he’s so certain, but he knows JARVIS is disabled in at least the entire building. Probably with Stark as well. But they can’t take out SI’s satellites. 

He hits speed dial on his cell. It rings twice. 

“Hey, what’s-“ Steve starts. 

“They’re here,” Bucky says shortly. “They wanted to draw you out. Tell Stark to track this phone.” Then he smashes it, looks for the chip- there. He smiles at it; only Stark would’ve made each of the components water tight. He pulls a knife out of its sheath from the small of his back, shoves his sweatpants down, and cuts into the skin of his thigh. He takes a deep breath and shoves the tracker in, holds his finger over the wound, feels the bleeding already stopping. 

He closes the bedroom door, stands between Sarah and the front door, and settles his stance, wide and strong. He doesn’t think they’re gonna come with bullets. 

The door collapses in, and the first guy in his fully armored suit and helmet freezes when he sees Bucky staring at him, waiting. They don’t have guns, and his isn’t going to give them more than some nasty bruises, so he waits. 

The jackass gets bold, takes a few steps forward, and others come in behind him, guns up. Tranq guns. This is gonna end faster than he’d hoped, but oh well. At least he can thin the herd a bit. He smiles at the thought, all teeth, and they hesitate. 

He smashes in the first one’s skull with his fist, snaps his teeth at the next one with the blood spray still dripping from his face. The first dart buries itself in his neck. He tears the bulletproof vests of three of them and shoots them dead, no bullets wasted. Two more darts, and now he’s feeling it. His vision blurs. They advance. 

He hears Sarah crying, and slams the metal arm into the soldier advancing toward the bedroom. The man falls; crushed sternum. He throws his body into the crowd, punching, biting, shooting, whatever he can do to slow them down. Another dart. He’s gasping for air, muscles seizing up, feels hair matted with blood fall over his eyes. 

Only Hydra has a formula good enough to take him down; it took years of trial and error. They feel like Hydra, move like them- there’s always more, deep in their holes. Cut off one head. 

He feels a shudder through his body, a nauseous roll, lightning pain through his cheekbones- that’s nerves, and here it comes. It hurts like acid running through his veins, and he bellows and breaks the neck of the idiot that tries to walk past him. 

His heart beat burns through the adrenaline, starts to slow with the drug taking over. He blinks as the room flashes and fizzes out, tries to grip his knife with his hand but can’t. It clatters to the floor, and he follows it down, ears ringing. 

\--

The next time he’s conscious, he smells salt and mildew, feels the floor roll beneath him. His eyes snap open but it’s dark- he can feel the rough scratch of the blindfold. He breathes deep and mentally checks himself over, feels the fresh cut on his thigh where they’ve scanned for and pulled the tracker. His arms are restrained, and he hates it, he hates it. He breathes again, opens his senses. 

He can hear voices on the deck above him as the ship sways. Not a big ship, but not too small either. Seaworthy. There are a variety of accents- American, Russian, Mandarin, something Baltic? He listens intently for Sarah’s soft breaths, and hears nothing. She might not even be on this ship. They could have taken her to some snake hole on the other side of the world. He feels grief caving him in, and breathes through it. 

Someone near him notices he’s awake, mutters about it in a language he understands but can’t be bothered to identify, then he’s out again. 

\--

When the first thing he smells again is a new flavor of mildew- clay-like, mineral- and his first sensations are his shackled arms and the concrete floor below him, he’s afraid. He opens his eyes- he’s in a cell, he recognizes it, but he can’t say from when or where. He has no way of knowing how far back he lost the tracker. The cell is reinforced. 

He pushes himself into the corner, works on flexing his fingers, one at a time, then his flesh arm, his toes. He has most of his fine motor control back. That’s a good sign. 

They’re clearly keeping him for something. He hopes he doesn’t find out what any time soon. He has no currency left with Hydra; their rules and games mean nothing to him anymore, and they know it. 

At least it’s not the CIA, or the NSA, or whoever the hell was about to come after him next. If he gets out of here, the scattered remains of HYDRA will have difficulty following him. When he gets out, that is. They still have Sarah. 

His pulse thrums, and he works on the larger muscles in his legs, scans the room for weaknesses. There aren’t many. 

He hears footsteps, sees a shadow in front of his cell, feels a dart sting as it hits him in the chest. 

“Fuckin… cowards,” he says to the darkness, then passes out. 

\--

He’s in the cell again. His stomach hurts like hell, cramping and irritable. 

They left him a bucket to vomit in. How nice of them. 

When he’s done, he pulls up his shirt to examine his stomach. There are three little pin points of blood, needle injections. He feels hot and dizzy all over, and the feeling is familiar. Like morning sickness. 

They’re giving him fertility treatments. He closes his eyes. At least they’re predictable. 

\--

After the third series of injections, and however many days have passed in this hole, it occurs to him that he can’t remember them doing this before. Doesn’t mean they didn’t, but its niggling absence bothers him, like a tooth knocked loose- he doesn’t think they did this before. 

He hauls the bucket over to him, and breathes heavily in the corner. He hears someone outside his cell laugh, but can’t see anything. They’re not into lights down here. He flips them off, and heaves. 

Then he hears a soft wail, high and hurt, and hiccupping cries. Sarah. 

He bolts to the bars of the cell, shakes them hard. 

“What are you doing to her?” he yells, and sees three guards move forward in the gloom. 

“Shut up,” one says, hoisting the dart gun. He stares at it. He’s going to put it into each of their necks. 

“I can hear her,” he yells, pulling at the bars, feeling his heart pound so fast he thinks it might burst. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HER?”

The guards look at each other. “He’s hallucinating,” one of them whispers. 

The metal arm is still active, which means that either they’re idiots or there’s no one left alive who knows how to dissemble it properly. He grips the thick bar, feels how deeply it’s buried in the concrete, and _pulls_.

He hears her again. The metal arm locks up and he puts his flesh hand over it, screams when he feels something tear, hears a grinding series of clicks. 

The metal bars groan. 

“Shit,” the guard with the dart gun says, and gets trigger happy. Three darts bury themselves into his thigh. 

“You’re fucked,” one of the guards tells the other, and then pain roars down his nerves. 

\--

That…is a really big needle. Why the hell is he awake. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he slurs. 

“You’re less quiet than you used to be, soldier,” the doctor notes, and Bucky thinks he looks familiar. 

Bucky ignores him, examines the long, hollow needle. He flexes minutely in his restraints. 

“Egg harvesting,” Bucky summarizes with a sigh. “You going to kill me?” 

The doctor ignores him, which is enough of an answer. It makes sense, really. Take the genes you need to support a super soldier serum, kill off the one that’s destroying your organization. Groom the kid from early enough on that they don’t have these kind of behavior problems, don’t need the wipes. 

They’re going to kill him, and take Sarah, and make even more soldiers. They’ll brainwash them and torture them and make them think that a warm meal after a long, hard mission is kindness. He gives the restraints a hard try, hears them groan, but hold. 

The sedation must interact poorly with whatever drugs they’re giving him, or he’d be down now. He flexes his bare feet in the cuffs, looks around the room. There are about ten guards in the room alone, plus a couple nurses. It doesn’t look like he’s getting out of this. He’s been here many times before, but it’s hard not to panic when he’s caught fast like this, every time. 

The needle advances, and he’s not wearing pants, which is distressing. He bites his tongue to keep quiet; he doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He sees a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. 

Hair. Red hair. His heart rate picks up- they have him on a monitor, and it beeps loudly, but they ignore it, obviously. 

The lights in the room go out, and he lets out a long breath of relief that’s a little shakier than his pride wants to admit. Then the screaming starts, and he hums. 

Natasha’s face appears before him, and she throws down an electrical device onto the table that makes the cuffs abruptly snap open. Then she’s on someone’s shoulders with a garrote, and he winces. He’s been on the receiving end of that one before. 

He gets off the table and onto shaky legs. It’s plenty of stability for him to snap a few necks. When he’s done, he gives Natasha a nod. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, hoarse. Natasha looks surprised for a moment, then smiles at him, tilted and flirtatious. The doctor is cowering on the ground; everyone else is dead or unconscious. He leans down pulls him up by the neck, shoves him toward Natasha. 

“For me?” she says, sultry. “You shouldn’t have.” 

“You need to interrogate him.” He flashes his canines at the doctor. “Let me know if you need help.” He goes to the door, shaking legs steading as he goes. “Sarah?”

“We haven’t located her yet,” Natasha says, serious. 

“She’s here,” he says, and makes his way down the hall. He hasn’t gone two steps before he sees Steve running toward him, big and beautiful. He feels himself relax a little in every muscle in his body. 

Steve skids to a halt and puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, runs them over them like he’s checking him over, then stops, begs with his eyes. 

Bucky pulls him into the hug he’s asking for. It’s warm and solid, and he closes his eyes for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, wrecked. He pushes in to nuzzle at Bucky’s scent glands; he can't have enough there to scent, but the gesture is soothing. “I’m so sorry.” 

Bucky thumps him on the back. “Thanks for coming for me.”

“Of course,” Steve says. He draws back to look him in the eye. “Always. Never again, you hear me?”

“You’re always so earnest,” Bucky deflects, and starts walking. “They have Sarah.” He scents the air, starts walking. 

Steve follows, covering his back. Just like old times. Well, reversed. 

He hears her whimper, faint, and starts running. She gets louder, and Steve swivels toward the noise, follows him. 

Bucky goes to open the door, and Steve hands him the shield. 

“We can take shifts, right?” Steve says, eyes wide and earnest. 

Bucky grips the shield, pecks Steve on the forehead, then goes in. 

There aren’t any bullets. There’s one guard who tries to rush him, and Bucky tosses the shield at him, watches him crumple. Steve catches the shield on the rebound, and Bucky nods at him. 

The person with Sarah has laid her down on the table and is standing back, hands up. 

Bucky considers her for a moment, then sees two bright, fresh points of blood on the man’s hand, close together. Sarah’s canines. 

He laughs, scans him for weapons, decides not to kill him. He lifts Sarah gingerly into his arms and feels something click back into place, breathes for the first time in about a month. He breathes her in, feels Steve nearly levitating nearby, and lets him scent her briefly before he puts his focus back on the other man in the room. 

“Sorry, baby,” Bucky says, and kisses her forehead before he cradles her to his chest. She stops fussing and settles, going lax in his arms. 

\--

Back on the quinjet, Bucky’s huddled down into a corner, rocking Sarah gently in his arms. Steve is talking to Tony, who looks like he hasn’t slept in, well, a month. 

“How did you find me?” Bucky asks, and they turn to look at him. 

“Tony,” Steve says with grudging respect. 

“Yeah, well,” Stark says, “my fault, my fuck up to fix.” 

“How’d they get through your security?” Bucky asks, curious. 

Tony rubs a hand over his face, flings it out. “Uh, plant. In security. He was there since I was a kid. He went to my birthday parties.” He laughs. “Well, we know who he is now. Couple others with him.” He looks away, ashamed. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, making Stark look at him. “It’s not your fault. It’s how they work.”

Tony nods, unconvinced, moves to walk away. He turns back for a moment. 

"Hey, Barnes. I got you a PR team. They've been doing pretty well for themselves with Cap's baby blues, but I pulled the footage from the base. Don't think you'll have a problem, after that. Trust me, I've been doing this for a long time. Uh," he looks directly at Bucky, "Those last, 20 minutes or so, before Widow came in. Deleted those." 

Bucky gives him a nod. Stark nods a couple times to himself, goes to talk to Banner. 

Steve comes to sit beside Bucky, and Bucky leans into him. He spends the rest of the flight curled around Sarah, and if he can’t fall asleep, he finds he can close his eyes when he hears Steve breathe. A warm arm wraps around his hip, moves to splay across his stomach when Bucky moves closer.


End file.
